Tales from a Teacher-Mama

When I’m lying in bed at night, waiting to fall asleep, I have tons of ideas to blog about. And now, in the light of midday, I can’t think of what they are. Maybe I should put a notebook and pen on my nightstand…but then I would probably be up jotting notes when I should be sleeping.

So until the ideas float back to me, I’m rambling. Babbling. Writing drivel. Why? Well, for one thing, if I don’t post regularly I’ll lose my account here. (I’ve already had to request to have it reinstated twice.) For another, it’s sort of a step in my therapy. Last week I talked with my counselor about wanting to be able to start something…AND finish it. Although we focused specifically on writing papers for the classes I’m taking, I’m generalizing her recommendations. She suggested that when I think about something I need to do–like write a paper–and I feel the anxiety causing me to shy away from the task, I should face it right then. Put in ten minutes on the paper, read through source material, work on the outline–something small, for a short time. Break it down into small, do-able pieces. Then go on with other things. Now, instead of having that paper (or whatever) hanging over my head as something I need to do, I’m in the process of doing it.

Of course, I knew this. I’m a teacher–I’ve given this advice to students. But it helps to have an outside, objective person help clear the fog of being overwhelmed and get back on track.

And now I have a new blog entry to post. It’s nothing earth-shattering (the counselor and I have also discussed my need for “perfection,” and the fact that it does not exist), but it’s done. I can check that off my to-do list and go on with my day…

Sarah has some anger issues.

Recently, she got upset because one of the neighbor kids was trying to follow her into the house when she didn’t want him to. I told Sarah that the boy could come in for a minute, and that caused her to redirect her fury at me. She came straight at me across the room, eyes wide with rage, teeth clenched and bared, and her little fist cocked back. When she reached me, she actually punched me right in the mouth.

With my lips smarting, I stood and tossed the book I’d been reading on the floor. I pointed toward the stairs and told her to get to her room and stay there. She went, screaming all the way. Once upstairs she slammed her door a few times, calling down, “Hear this, Mommy?” as if I might have missed it.  She followed that act by throwing a couple of toys down the stairwell–generally in my direction–and shrieked, “That’s what you get for giving birth to me!”

I couldn’t help it–I laughed. She doesn’t have any idea how true that statement is.